between barren ease and rich unrest

"Well, we know that if the Republicans win the majority, all Senate committees would have Republican chairs. The Energy Committee, for instance, might be run by Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, a moderate who is in the pocket of oil and gas lobbies. This would be a dramatic change from the current situation in which the Energy Committee is run by Mary Landrieu of Louisiana, a moderate who is in the pocket of oil and gas lobbies."

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

Times, Nita mused, always change. Stuff you love dies. Stuff you hate thrives. And sometimes it works the other way 'round. Circle of life.

But no matter what life hands you, you always need a good wig. A wig with character. A wig with stamina. A wig that makes you feel like a movie star or a captain of industry. Nita knows that a wig can make you feel whole again, if only for a night.

This weekend, we made a quicky trip up to the ROC for a memorial service for the Husband's step-father. He'd passed away this summer.

It was a lovely memorial, with a lot of great singing and heartfelt stories, which he likely would have enjoyed. What I'll remember most, however, is the road trip with both kids, who are of an age to be mostly enjoyable on road trips.

We made it in late-ish on Friday. The Tween had been awfully quiet. My neck hurts just looking at her.

Mr Hulk Hands did not look forward to having to sit still during the memorial. I might have let him know that if he didn't behave, nothing fun would happen until he was 30. Don't judge.

And after the service, the Flamenco!

And after after the service, drinks and snacks at The Old Toad, which is about as close as you can get to a British Pub while still in the states. This includes, of course, largely indifferent service and expertly fried proteins. The Tween was doing a little dance because she'd just Rickrolled her brother.

Then a long drive back home, where the stumpy dog let us know we were missed.

Late, late, late on Monday, the Tween made it back from her adventure in Peru. We have managed in ther intervening days to do her laundry. Pictures are still on her camera, though, and will have to wait until the weekend to really sort through.

Until then, what we know:

Few things are cuter than a souvenir llama wearing a souvenir wee silly hat. Also: Lucy would really, really, really like to chew on the souvenir llama.

It's always best to give your brother a gift that covers his entire face and, incidentally, unnerves the rest of us.

I didn't take a picture of the (now dead) beetle that hitched a ride in her luggage. Take it as read.

The stories we've heard so far involve a giant roach "as big as my hand!" that wanted to play Monopolio* with them one night, being licked by a rescued tapir, and how all of the Peruvian men hit on the female college students in the group. More stories, I'm sure, will spill out once we get the chance to look at her photos together.

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch - either in illustration or word form - and the other would make a companion sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

It started a few months ago, first with one little birdie. He (or she, it’s hard to tell with birds) landed on my hand when I pointed to the hole in our backyard where I found the buried plastic saint. At first I figured that one of our house’s previous owners was a firm believer in the whole St. Joseph can sell your house thing. But then there were more birds. And more. And I took a closer look. Whomever had buried the plastic saint either a) grabbed St. Francis rather than St. Joseph or b) was trying to lift her own bird curse by giving a St. Francis icon a dirt nap.

Whichever, however, matters not. All I want right now is to get all of these dang little birdies to fly away home before my dry cleaning bill equals the GNP of several small nations.

Full details will come on Friday but, today, I shall stiffly and sorely do my best to get on top of all of the other stuff that happened while I was off scampering 13.1 miles around parts of Onondaga Lake...